


A Different Self

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Accidents, Affectionate Insults, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Banter, Bickering, Disassociation, Family Bonding, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Mid-Canon, Military Backstory, Movie Night, Multiple Selves, Panic, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Shock, Surprises, Teasing, Vulnerability, World War II, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Jameson has memories of another time in his life which have been carefully anddeeplyrepressed. Who knew that something as simple as Movie Night would be the thing to draw them out?





	A Different Self

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the theory that Jameson, a 1930's man, served in the British army during World War II. I imagine that if it ever came back to haunt him, it wouldn't bode well for his relationship with our favorite _German_ doctor.

The modern television was one of the oddest contraptions Jameson had the privilege of witnessing, he mused. It was twice his size, slim and sleek, with astonishing depth of color—not at all like the boxy black-and-white contraptions he knew, but naturally that meant he had no idea how to  _work_  the newfangled thing. He had gotten somewhat more practiced with the remote, but when it was Movie Night, he opted to forgo joining the fight that ensued over who had control over it. All of them spoke over each other, gradually growing in volume and animation until the loudest finally won out.

“C’mon, man, we watched your movie last time!”

“And we all enjoyed it, didn’t we? So why can’t we watch the sequel tonight?!”

“So much was packed into the first one, I barely remember everything that happened!”

“Well, we could watch that one again—”

“No!”

“Hey, why don’t we watch an old classic—?”

“No-o-o, we’ve seen that a hundred times!”

“I’m not in the mood for  _any_  of that! There’s a good movie I’ve saved on Channel 7—”

“Channel 7’s never got anything good!”

“Just gimme the remote, I’ll find something—”

“Hey, I picked it up first so I get first dibs!”

“Give it!”

When this kind of tiff was going on, no one would ever expected that those four were the older, more mature Egos in the household, Jameson mused with amused resignation, shaking his head as he took another handful of popcorn. He took his time munching them, forcing himself to focus on the taste rather than the escalating noises that made him want to cover his ears.

After a struggle that he didn’t quite know what to make of, Schneep was flung onto the couch beside him, looking decidedly confused as to what had just happened. A moment or two later, he shook it off, shifting to brush down his rumpled clothing and give Jameson a sideways glance. His eyebrows rose.

“Well, look at the little one who sits here eating the corn without care in the world!” he exclaimed, swatting him lightly.

 **“I’ve no chance in that fight! Why waste an opportunity to snatch up the goods while they bicker?”**  Jameson pointed out, tapping the side of his nose. Schneep couldn’t help but laugh at that, quickly leaning back into the couch cushions to dodge one of the others’ elbows as they escalated from a verbal match to a lighthearted brawl.

“This is a good point.” Pausing, Schneep leaned on his arm with more weight than was strictly necessary as he mused, “Although…I notice you’re stealing the particular little buttery ones. Those are the ones  _I_  like.”

 **“Ah, but they’re in the bowl with all the others!”**  Jameson countered, elbowing him playfully. **“They aren’t reserved for you!”**

The doctor tilted his head, seeming to consider, and then swatted Jameson a second time without warning, knocking the kernels from his hand and scattering them across the couch and the floor. Jameson gasped, rounding on him incredulously, and Schneep grinned cockily. “That does not mean you won’t have to fight for rights to them!”

**“The nerve! I’ll show you, sir!”**

Their fight was less overt than the others, though no less a tangle of limbs as they grabbed at each other’s hands to keep them from reaching the rest of the precious snack. When handfuls were managed, they usually ended up throwing them at each other rather than eating them, but somehow they were laughing all the while and something in Jameson’s mind knew that they both needed it, despite the mess. Times had been stressful lately, and this was  _fun!_

When Jameson had managed to throw a leg in front of Schneep’s arms and made another snatch for the bowl, however, the television remote made its escape from the similar wrestling match nearby, landing in the bowl with a finalizing clank. Seizing the opportunity and the remote, he began brushing salt from it as the others spun around, all pinning wide eyes on the prize.

“Jameson…” Jackieboy began, shifting restlessly.

“Jem, c’mon, I had it first!” Chase interrupted him, struggling for breath where he still dangled a few inches off the ground. Marvin peeked out from behind him; his arms were lodged around Chase’s waist, as if he’d intended to shake the remote away from him.

 **“Perhaps _I_  could give it a go!”** Jameson suggested cheerfully, blinking up at them with a bright, innocent smile.

“Don’t trust him!” Schneep burst out, pushing Jameson’s leg off his lap and taking the (mostly empty) popcorn bowl protectively. “He is a  _rascal!_ ”

Ignoring him, Jameson just kept on smiling. He knew none of the others would tussle with him as fiercely as they would with each other; in their minds, he was meant to be kept safe and preserved!

Much to his delight, he could visibly see them melting for his sweet smile and puppy eyes. Chase was the first to break, sighing good-naturedly as he was planted back on the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he came around to sit on Jameson’s left. Marvin followed, sprawling back on his right, and Jackieboy sank down beside him as Schneep slid sideways to make room.

With one last glance at Jameson that promised eventual retribution for the popcorn, the doctor curled up on Jackieboy’s right, and Jameson’s smile widened into a grin as he began flipping through channels. There were so many channels to choose from, colors of all shades washing over his eyes; it was a treat!

Every so often, he paused on a channel, watching whatever was happening for a few moments before moving on. The cartoons were a viable option; they were one of his favorite activities, but he wanted to go somewhere he hadn’t before! A television was meant to transport him to foreign lands, wasn’t it? As he gained confidence, he clicked faster, pictures and sounds blurring.

“Aw, Jem, you’re getting to the documentaries now,” Chase tutted disappointedly, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Can we go back to the movies? If you give me the remote, I can find us a good one, I promise! Or maybe we could just look in the DVD cabinet—” His next suggestion was cut off by a particularly loud explosion from the speakers and he jumped, yelping, “Whoa, turn it down!”

Jameson didn’t. He barely even heard him, staring with wide eyes at what was happening on the screen. It took less than ten seconds. With a spattering of static and a nauseating plummet in his stomach, he  _was_  transported. This was a land he didn’t want to revisit, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t escape. Memories poured into him, surrounding him, coming to life before him.

He was there.

Planes sputtering and smoking as they spiraled out of the air, clouds of dust kicking up under soldiers’ feet, under  _his_  feet, grit and sweat and blood and smoke choking every breath he took and bringing tears to his eyes as he dragged himself under the cover of rubble—Pebbles and bullet casings scraping his hands and knees as he lunged for a dead man’s weapon, praying it still had ammunition—And their  _voices_. Screams and desperate pleas clamoring against his ears, tangled up in the ugly, foreign curses that were getting closer and closer with every heartbeat—

The sounds on the television disappeared abruptly; Chase had taken the remote before it fell from his limp hands and muted them, but before he could even open his mouth to make a comment, Jameson was moving, scrambling to get out from under his arm. He couldn’t—He couldn’t—He didn’t even  _know_  what he couldn’t do; all thoughts were consumed by the sensation of the sweat pooling in the dip of his collarbones and clinging to his back as he slid onto the floor, dragging himself—anywhere. Away. All that mattered was  _away_.

“Jameson?”

“ _Jackson!_ ”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“ _What’s happening, J…? I c-can’t breathe_ —”

“What are you doing?”

“ _He’s already gone, Jackson, you gotta leave him!_ ”

“Jem? Schneep, can you see if he’s—?”

“ _Ergeben Sie sich,_   _Lakenpatscher, oder Ihre Freunde werden nacheinander getötet!”_

“Jamie—Stop for a tick, something’s wrong! Let me have a look at you.”

 _Right behind him_.  **“Get away from me!”**

A hand was held out in his peripheral vision to pull him up and Jameson lunged at it. They weren’t playing anymore; this was the hand of an enemy and he had a chance with it, viciously wrenching it the wrong way as he rolled sideways and lashed out, pummeling the doctor’s chest and shoulders with his legs to knock the wind out of him. As Schneep fell back, Jameson lunged upright, eyes wild.

 **“Keep away!”**  he snarled, a fresh dose of dread pulsing through him when the other barely reacted. He just kept staring up at him, looking far more surprised than threatened. Suppressing a terrible shudder, he repeated fiercely,  **“You keep away, Kraut, or I swear I’ll kill ya!”**

“Wh—What?” Schneep stammered, clutching his twisted wrist in disbelief.

Reeling back, Jameson hurriedly patted himself down, searching for any kind of weapon and panting erratically as he found none.  **“There has to be—Why don’t I have—?!”**  For a split second he froze, hesitating uncertainly when he saw a glimpse of the living room and his doctor lying on the floor, and then static created an agonizing buzz in his ears and it was just their awful battlefield.

His clothes were strangling him, his skin was burning and there was something wrapped around his throat that kept him from calling for help as the German got back up. Jameson knew he was defenseless, weaponless, fear churning through him.

 _He’s one of t̷he̛m!_  his mind howled. _He’ll bring more and they’ll ki͟ll̶ you like they’ve killed your fr͟i͘e̡nds! Ki̵ll h͡i̶m̡ fi̷r̛s̶t͜!_

“Jameson!”

That brogue was different, familiar—Irish. Neutral? Volunteer. Ally.

 **“Thank heavens,”**  he gasped, backing away as the Irishman came between him and the enemy.  **“I—I’ve lost my weapons! D’you have anything on you to spare?! We’ve gotta kill the bugger before he reports back! Gimme a knife or a pistol, _something!_ Help me!”**

Worry creasing his brows, Jackieboy held a hand out to Schneep, keeping it there so he would stay back as he faced their youngest. “Jameson,” he murmured pleadingly, placatingly, “do you know where you are?”

 **“Where I—?”**  Jameson stopped up short, shaking his head in amazement. What kind of question was that?! This was battle, this was fear and adrenaline and frantic self-preservation against that blasted monster and his evil!

But…did Jameson know where he was? Where  _was_  he?

The more he thought about the question, the louder the static around him became, until he could barely keep his feet underneath him. Lifting his hands to his ears as vertigo clawed up his back, he hissed tremulously,  **“My head… _hurts_ …”**

When he next blinked, his vision was enveloped by blood dripping and fangs bared in a gleeful, mocking grin, but it was only there for an instant before the world reset and he realized he was slumped against the wall in the hallway with Jackieboy at his side.

“JJ?” he ventured cautiously.

 **“What—? Why am I—?”**  Dazed, unnerved and sticky with sweat, Jameson promptly started shivering, flinching when Jackieboy tried to touch him.  **“We were sitting on the couch…weren’t we? H-How long has it been?”**

“Only two or three minutes,” Marvin answered gingerly.

“I think you had a panic attack,” Chase murmured breathlessly from where he was standing just behind Jackieboy. Jameson immediately looked up at the sound of his voice, grief and hope stirring simultaneously.  _Chase. Chase meant safety_.

When Jameson reached out, the vlogger didn’t waste any time coming round to his side. His squeeze to Jameson’s shaking hand was tight enough to hurt, but Jameson didn’t mention it. The pain was grounding him. He was here, with them, and nowhere else.

 **“Da,”**  he choked out, leaning exhaustedly into Chase’s chest as he enveloped him.

“It’s okay,” Chase soothed, though they both knew it wasn’t. “You’re gonna be alright, Jem, I promise.”

 **“I d-didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I just wanted to…to…”**  He’d wanted to survive, no matter the cost. Who had he been for the past few minutes? He certainly hadn’t been himself or if he had, it was a different self, one he had long since buried. Those memories had never surfaced before. He didn’t even remember living through them.

After an amount of time Jameson didn’t bother to keep track of, Chase asked him softly if he was okay to stand. He nodded, winding his arms around Chase’s neck for support as he was lifted onto his own two feet. He wobbled for a few moments, his knees weak, and then he took a deep breath, glancing shakily around at the others.

“Are we sure that was just a panic attack?” Marvin broke the silence, his concern uncharacteristically exposed in his voice.

“By the look of it, he had the small disassociation,” Schneep commented, wincing as he examined the fresh bruising on his wrist left by Jameson’s fingers. “I expect it was a flashback of some kind. Jamie, if you tell us what you were seeing, is possible I could find something to—”

 **“No! S-Stop, stop talking,”**  Jameson burst out, clumsily, precariously wrenching away from Chase and shoving past Schneep as an entirely new wave of panic, agitation and remorse boiled up from his stomach.

He was here again, he reminded himself anxiously. He knew without the shadow of a doubt that Schneep was a caretaker, a friend, but his  _voice_ —Just hearing that accent and that broken English made his skin crawl. Feeling faint, Jameson leaned against the wall for support as he moved. He had to get to his room, he had to—he couldn’t face them like this.

“Whatever just happened is not something to just brush away like little normal incident!” Schneep protested as he followed. “I can see you’re in pain. Let me—”

**“I don’t want _anything_ , especially not from you!”**

At that the doctor stilled, the bewilderment shifting ever so slightly with a flash of hurt, and Jameson ran a harried hand across his face, smearing away the tears that threatened.

“I do not understand…” Schneep admitted, shuffling forward testingly and then hesitating as Jameson stiffened. “I am the good doctor. You know me. Why won’t you let me near?”

**“Just—”**  His next breath stuck in his throat for several seconds until he leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes to block out the intrusive thoughts drifting through. **“—cork it till I can catch my breath again.”**

“Please, Jamie, I  _know_  what this is like. The panic, the breathlessness, I’ve gone through it before! I want to help you.”

**“No! Listen, just _shut it_  if y’know what’s good for you!”**

“Jamie…!”

Exhaling hysterically, Jameson threw up his hands as the tears resurfaced, stinging hotly with guilt and anger as he hollered,  **“I can’t _look_  at you right now, I can’t  _listen_  to you! You’re—Doc, you say one more word and I’ll—well, I-I’ll—! Ugh, holy horsefeathers!  _Bugger it!_  Just stay away from me until I know what I’m doing!”**

With that he stormed off, stumbling every few feet until he grabbed onto his bedroom door handle for support. He ended up alarming himself with the thunderous slam his door made as he closed it, promptly collapsing back onto the floor and dissolving into silent, humiliated tears.

Everything about that had been wrong. They would worry about him. They would ask him again if he needed help after some time had passed. How could he possibly begin to explain what he needed when he didn’t even understand it for himself?

How could he  _ever_  start to know what he was doing?

_Oh, don’t͡ yo̷u worr̶y, p͝up͢pet._

_I'҉l͘l͠ tea͜c̴h yo̧u_.


End file.
